


Unstuck

by miss_nettles_wife



Category: The Doctor Blake Mysteries
Genre: Crying, Dark!Blake, Gen, brusing, possessive character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-14
Updated: 2016-02-14
Packaged: 2018-05-20 10:50:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,404
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6003046
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/miss_nettles_wife/pseuds/miss_nettles_wife
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Blake is a nice guy. Really, he is. But you know what they say. Good locks make for good land lords.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Unstuck

**Author's Note:**

> since no one else has done it, I will be the first writer of dark blake. *sunglass emojis out*

He's going to collect Charlie for dinner when he hears it. A soft sort of sniffing noise he recognizes as crying. Who was crying in the house? Blake liked to ensure his house was a crying free zone, so if someone was crying then there would probably be a good reason for it. Especially Charlie. 

He took a deep breath to calm himself as he knocked on the door. He did not want Charlie to think he was upset with him, no, that would be counter productive. He knocks on the door, and follows that with his careful “Charlie? Are you alright.” 

“I'm f-fine, Doc.” He does not sound fine. Blake feels a small rush of anger at whoever told Charlie he must hide his emotions like he does. It's not an unusual feeling. He feels it quite regularly. Afterall, how is he supposed to help Charlie if he won't share what's wrong? But he steadies himself. He hears a soft sound of Charlie blowing his nose on the other side of the door and tries to imagine how he must be sitting. 

If he knows Charlie, and he does, then he probably still looks composed. Knees together, probably coin-between-the-knees style. He would be holding his handkerchief between both hands as tightly as he could. The handkerchief would be at chest height, and he would release his left hand from it when he wanted to wipe his red and puffy face. 

“You don't sound fine.” He says, keeping his voice open and warm, since Charlie responded best to that. He liked to think he had a choice. Blake got the feeling he was slowing becoming some sort of father, or at least, adult male role model in Charlie's life. Which was fine by him, since, once Charlie accepted it, it would be a lot easier to look after him. 

“Go away, please.” He sounded so desperate to not be caught out, that Blake isn't even upset with Charlie for being rude to him. The soft crying noises start up again, followed by whispering he cant make out. He can see, in his minds eye, Charlie laying his handkerchief on his thigh and neatly folding it into a square as he attempted to calm down. He can see him pinch his nose between his thumb and pointer finger and swallow deeply. 

“I can't do that.” Blake said, softly. “It's important to me that you're okay.” He insists. Which is true. It is important to him. It's important to him that everyone under his roof is alright. Charlie doesn't respond, so he takes that as an okay and opens the door. 

Charlie's room, despite having been occupied by Charlie for three months and six days now, looked almost the same as when he'd last seen it prior to his moving his father's boxes in there. He didn't see any really expressive personal touches. Annoying. There was a built in wardrobe that was filled with his police uniforms and other important clothes. A dresser filled his more homely clothes, the ones that Blake preferred to see him in. A dresser, adorned with a glass, a tin or hair product, a comb, a straight razor, and a book. 

The book, he realized as he crossed the room was Charlie's diary and probably filled with secrets and thoughts that Blake wants to know. He wants to know everything about Charlie. A he has a half formed thought about reading it when Charlie was at work. It wasn't locked, and out in the open, so he clearly did trust the people he shared a house with. It was practically an invitation. But he files the thought away for now and takes a seat by Charlie on the bed. 

He was correct about Charlie folding his handkerchief, and the way he was sitting. He kept roughly a handspace between them, deciding not to push it to much quite yet, if Charlie was going to get comfort then he would have to earn it. Charlie smells quite nice, he also realizes. A subtle aftershave mixed with sweet smelling shampoo. Pleasant, but giving away little about his personality. Hm. 

“What's happened?” he asks, observing as Charlie tucks his wrist in between his knees. Charlie wipes under his unfortunately red nose with the back of his other hand.   
“Nothing.” He mumbled, sounding quite pathetic. Blake felt bad for him, really. Someone had done a good job of drilling into his head that he had to hide his emotions all the time.   
“I don't think that's quite true.” he prompts, very pleased with how only warmth and kindness leaked into his voice.   
“Please.”   
“Charlie.”  
He sniffs again, and Blake has to hold off on the urge to reach out and comfort him now. 

“How about we start with your wrist?” He asks, gently. Charlie sniffs, and after some seconds offers it to him. Good. Progress. His wrist is red and slightly swollen. Despite being being the same width as Blake's own it still feels small and delicate in his hand. As if he could break it. Silly notion, he knows. He looks it over and then looks at Charlie, awaiting an explanation. 

“Munro...” He begins, in a soft voice. “He. Uh. He squeezed the bones together.” Blake nods, and gently feels along the blossoming purple and green bruises. Charlie suppresses a soft whimper. Blake turns his pale wrist up to look at the underside.   
“Why would he do that?” Blake asks softly. Charlie shakes his head and looks away. Blake gently reaches two fingers under Charlie's chin so he is looking at him. 

He gets the sense that talking about this is difficult, especially for Charlie, so he moves closer, hoping Charlie finds it comforting.   
“I...” A pause. A sniff. “Well.” Charlie has begun to cry again. Blake releases his chin and takes out his own handkerchief to dab at Charlie's face in what he hopes is a concerned manner and not the barely restrained rage he is feeling. He cannot thing of anything Charlie might have done to deserve such abuse. 

“He…He made some statements about you...And I disagreed.” Charlie murmured, “He grabbed me, by the wrist, said. Said some things about my father and asked if I knew where my loyalty was.” Blake cannot help it. How dare he? How dare he take a sweet boy like Charlie Davis who wanted nothing more then to be a good police man and injure him? His rage boils closer to the surface in a way he cannot describe. 

Obviously it had been something more then just the hurt wrist that made Charlie cry. Must have been his comments regarding his father. He wonders about Charlie's father. Half a thought about looking him up so he knew what he was up against tries to push though but his anger keeps it down. He had known Munro was dangerous but this. This had to be dealt with, it was unacceptable for him to treat Charlie like this. Unacceptable for him to damage things that weren't his, at least, not any longer. 

He's brought back to the present by a very soft. “You're hurting me.” From Charlie. He releases Charlie's hand right away. In his thought, he's been squeezing Charlie's wrist in his hand.   
“Sorry.' He said, and moved his hand to wrap around Charlie's shoulders. Charlie, predictably accepts this, and at Blake gentle pulling, allows his face to rest his face on Blake's chest. Blake feels special. He doubts Charlie would allow such perceived weakness in the face of many people. 

He smooths his hand that is not holding onto Charlie's though his hair as he feels the soft crying start up again. 

While Charlie busies himself with crying, Blake continues his plan to find a away to read Charlie's diary, maybe have a look around his room for some more personal details, as well as what Munro had done. 

The crying lasts for a full five minutes before they stop. Blake goes to release Charlie when he hears a soft “Can I...Can I just sit here for a moment?” Blake feels a sudden rush of warmth in his chest, that almost dulls his rage.   
“Of course.” He said, softly. 

And they do. 

After another few minutes, he releases Charlie from is hold, and offers him a handkerchief. Charlie takes it and dabs half heartedly at his face. “Now. I did come up here to get you for Dinner.” Charlie purses his lips tightly, and says   
“I can't..”  
“You can't?” he prompts, careful to keep his voice kind.   
“Not. Not looking like this.” So it was a pride thing. Blake nods and claps him on the shoulder.   
“Alright. How about this. You let me fix up your wrist, I'll tell Jean that you aren't feeling well, and later on when you're up for it, I will make you some of my special tea.”  
“Special tea?” Charlie asks,   
“From Singapore. You can't get it here.” Blake said, “It's a bit sweeter then Australian tea but I think you might need a bit of a pick me up.” Charlie sniffs again.   
“You don't need to give me special tea.”   
“I want to.”Blake said. Charlie sniffs.   
“You won't give up, will you?” Blake shakes his head no and smiles. Charlie offers him the tiniest of smiles back. 

…

It's much later when Charlie ventures downstairs. But he looks a lot better. He knocks twice on the closed door of Blake's study before Blake greets him. He smiles warmly. Charlie sniffs. He leads Charlie to the kitchen by the arm and sits him down at the kitchen table. 

“Special tea.” he said, putting the box on the counter top. Charlie examines it carefully, even if he can't read the Chinese label. He smells the box. He looks like a child, but in a good way. He apparently deems them safe because he sets them back down and returns to sit at the table. Blake also puts on some toast, figuring little food was better then none, even if Charlie wasn't in the mood to eat. Wouldn't do for him to lose sleep or feel sick. 

“I'm not going to poison you, Charlie.” Blake scoffs, keeping his tone affable.   
“I know that. Wouldn't be very productive for you. You'd lose the rent, there'd be a murder investigation, and not to mention you'd miss out on seeing my beautiful face every morning.” Blake finds himself smiling again. Wasn't often Charlie felt compelled to make jokes. Having a good cry must have been good for him.   
“I certainly would.” He smiles. 

After serving Charlie the tea, and getting his positive verdict, Blake watches in amusement as he struggles to stay awake long enough to eat the toast. He hides his amusment and replaces it with concern. “Are you alright?” Charlie is too spaced out to respond, so Blake takes it upon himself to carry him to bed and tuck him under the blankets. 

“Goodnight, Charlie.” Charlie rolls away from him and whispers something sleepily. Blake decides that is a goodnight, and leaves him be. 

…

 

He is really quite pleased with himself, as he returns to Charlie's room later that night. Crushed sleeping tablets in the tea bags was quite a trick, but one that had worked no less. It was good for Charlie to get some sleep, after all. And it allowed him the time to check out the contents of his bedroom. 

It was his house, after all. As he suspected, Charlie does not wake up when he enters, and he sets a very dull lamp on the dresser. In sleep, while Charlie does not look peaceful, Blake does not think he could ever really be peaceful, he at least looks calm. Maybe he should look into finding pills that will keep him calm all the time? He files the thought away for later. 

He starts with the diary. 

As he suspected, it contained mostly Charlie's personal thoughts and anecdotes about his life. This one had been started just before he came to Ballarat There were details about his sexual preference, stories about his mother, case notes, thoughts on Blake himself, ranging from highly positive to negative, comments about what he thought of Ballarat in general, and a recipe for potatoes that sounded nice. 

Upon exploring some of the drawers in the dresser, he came across a photo of his family. A woman if the rounded chin and small mouth were anything to go by, was probably his mother, and a man with curly hair and eyes that were so intense he could almost feel them in the picture, as well as a six year old boy holding onto his father's legs that was probably Charlie. 

A sweet photo. He wants to be in it. Charlie does, after all, belong to him now and he decides to take a photo of everyone some time in the next few weeks. 

On the bed, he hears a soft whisper, and he puts the photo away and looks at Charlie. He sits next to him on the bed, and ran a hand over his cheek. Charlie lets out a please little sigh and pressed his face into Blake's hand. Such a warm feeling runs though his system that he smiles. He must have been out later then he thought, then. “Dad?” He murmurs. Blake feels a stab in the heart that its not him he's asking for, but he pushes it aside to smooth a warm hand though his hair. “Sleep Charlie.” He strokes his face until he does. 

…

He arrives at the station the next morning with an autopsy report for Munro who is nowhere to be found. Charlie glances at him when he comes in.   
“If you're looking for the boss he's not here.”  
“That's unlike him.” Blake comments.   
“He chewed me out last week for being ten minutes late where the hell is he?” Charlie wonders.   
“I'm sure he'll turn up.” Blake dismisses. “But since he's not here...”  
“You want to see those notes?”  
Blake nods. Charlie pulls him by the arm into the office.   
…  
He notes a few nights later that Charlie has started sleeping with a chair pushed up underneath his door handle. Charlie never mentions it, so neither does he. He wonders, idly, why he didn't just lock the door? 

It never crosses his mind that it might be because he had the keys to open it.


End file.
